


Sprained Arms and Flat Chests

by shiverfawkes



Series: Trans!John Watson [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Chest Binding, Domestic Fluff, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, M/M, Minor Angst, Trans John Watson, Trans Male Character, sprained arm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-09 21:02:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16457162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiverfawkes/pseuds/shiverfawkes
Summary: Sherlock has never seen John's chest. Overall he's content with that fact.Then John sprains his arm.





	Sprained Arms and Flat Chests

**Author's Note:**

> idk im just on some sort of trans!john kick. There is a lot of trans!sherlock but honestly, im not that into it.  
> btw, i legit just wrote it the way i put on my binder, so it might seem weird or oddly specific but whatever.  
> i have a habit of breaking limbs, the idea kinda just came to mind.  
> ( I don't know how /sherlock/ sherlock is in this, I don't really care though, he just might not be in great character)

Sherlock Holmes was John Watson's boyfriend. Just as John Watson was Sherlock Holmes' boyfriend.

Despite this fact. Sherlock had never seen John Watson’s chest.

Despite the fact that John now slept, dressed and had sex with Sherlock, in Sherlock’s bedroom, that they now shared. Sherlock had never seen John’s chest.

At first it bothered him, irritated him to the point where sometimes he ignored John. Now, after months of them dating, he stopped viewing it as a mystery.

He knew what chests looked like, male, female, he’d seen it.

He knew John didn’t want him to see his chest in its current state.

That was enough for him really.

John wore his binders almost religiously at this point. Sherlock had watched him put them on and take them on countless times. The doctor had a total of three. A white one, a black one, and a camouflage green one, all of which just reached his waist, leaving his midriff exposed, which was left often bruised by Sherlocks mouth.

The white one was the oldest, Sherlock knew just by looking. It had been bought to wear under school shirts.

He could remember the first time John ever got changed in his room. He had been stealing fervent glances at the taller man as he dressed, Sherlock would admit, if embarrassedly, that he’d done the exact same thing.

Then it came for John to take his shirt off, leaving him in his boxers and the blinding white fabric that compressed his chest flat, a stark contrast to his tan skin.

Sherlock watched in confusion as his face flushed red, because it wasn’t from the sight of the taller man in just his boxers. Usually he slept naked, but he’d spare John that experience until he was more comfortable around him

“Uhm, I uh, I have to take this off, do you mind if I turn around?” John replied, he had an oversized hoodie in his hand, it didn’t take much to work out that John didn’t want him to look at him.

“Of course, go ahead.” Sherlock replied with a nod.

John did as he said, turning his back to the taller man. He reached his hands over his head, clenching the stretchy part of it in his fists and pulling it over his head.

Sherlock watched him carefully, John was fortunate enough that his chest was fairly small, so as to not show from a straight-on view from behind. Besides, even if he caught a glance he could always just delete it.

He’d sat on the bed by the time John had turned around, the hoodie baggy enough as to not show anything.

Falling asleep beside John was quite easy, easier than it should’ve been.

He woke with John’s arms around his waist, his back pressed against John’s chest and the doctors head in his hair, soft breaths moving the curls ever so slightly. Their legs were a tanged mess beneath the duvet but he didn’t mind it. He scowled to himself, having become the little spoon as it were.

“John.” He spoke, shaking the shorter man from his sleep.

“Mm?” Johns voice was sleepy.

“Do you mind this?” He asked, very aware of the position of his back.

In response John just pulled him closer and he smiled softly to himself, leaning back against the doctor. His bed was a lot colder when he was the only one in it.

Sherlock watched in content as John got dressed in his bedroom, _their_ bedroom.

Turning his back again to put his binder _on_ this time. He put his arms through first, his head following, before running his fingers under the hem at the back to pull it down his skin. He then moved his arms to the front, tugging it down until it reached where the breast tissue began. Left first, then right. And like some sort of ritual he swiped his hand over his left side, doing the same with his right before using the both to swipe down over the fabric.

That was the first time. And there had been many other times since then. He did it the same each time, unknowing that Sherlock watched him almost every time he did it. Mesmerized.

John often insisted on dragging Sherlock to bed when the detective just _wouldn’t_ sleep, knowing for a fact having John at his side helped him immensely when it came to sleeping.

Over the course of a few months Sherlock had come to the conclusion that as long as his chest was covered, John was fine with it.

Sherlock had been there every morning and every night when John put a binder on, and took it off again, his back turned to the detective.

Well, maybe not every day and night. It could be anywhere from one hour to twenty-four, sometimes even further than that. Despite the danger of wearing it for prolonged periods of time, John didn’t seem to care. And though it hurt his ribs, he never complained.

And so life went on smoothly.

That was until, John sprained his arm.

They were on a case, chasing the criminal, John was behind Sherlock, watching his back, pistol in hand. Until he wasn’t.

Sherlock didn’t know how it happened. All John told him was that he fell, and used his arm for support until it cracked beneath him. That was an obvious lie, but Sherlock didn’t press it.

They kept him in the hospital for an insufferable amount of time. Despite his want to be at the police station, having caught the criminal in chasing, Sherlock waited, curious and concerned for John’s condition.

The doctor walked out of the room they’d had him in, with a sling on his arm and a relatively annoyed look on his face.

“What’s the damage?”

“A sprain, like I told them an hour and a half ago.” John grumbled as they walked out of the hospital. “Why would they trust a bloody doctor? It’s not like I trained in this ruddy hospital for Christ sake.” He spoke angrily, and Sherlock kept his head up, barely able to conceal a smile as he hailed a cab.

“Glad to know your temperament wasn’t altered in the fall.”

“Ta.”

“Been in the wars have you?” The cab driver asked a grin of his face, and Sherlock could barely contain a laugh as John glowered.

Regaining his composition, he decided to snap back as he knew he probably should, considering the driver had practically insulted his boyfriend, intentional or not. “He has in fact, Afghanistan actually. Considering he got shot for your safety, it mightn’t kill you to offer him a bit of respect.” Sherlock replied quickly, his tone biting, and the driver quietened immediately. “Baker Street if you don’t mind.”

The cabbie charged them less than the usual fare.  Sherlock smiled softly to himself.

After a bout of fussing and scolding from Mrs Hudson, and a cup of tea, they ended up in their bedroom.

Only after undoing his trousers one-handedly and managing to get his jumper and his shirt off likewise, it hit him.

“Uhm, Sherlock?” He asked, feeling his face flush red again as the taller man looked up at him, he’d been in the middle of undoing his belt, he stared momentarily in confusion before it clicked in his head.

“You can’t take it off with one hand.” He spoke, nodding carefully. “Would you like me to help?”

“If, uhm,” John cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind.” He replied.

Like always he turned so his back was facing Sherlock, and the detective realised how uncomfortable this made the doctor.

“I am aware this isn’t pleasant for you John. I know I'm taller, but I do respect your privacy, and I will do everything in my power to ensure I don’t see anything you’d wish me not to.”

“Thanks.” John replied, his voice quiet. “So, you have to pull it from the back and over.” He used his right arm to show Sherlock where to put his hands. “Just be careful not to rip it, it usually doesn’t take much force and-“

Sherlock placed a gentle hand on John’s shoulder. “I know.”

It was awkward, most definitely, but eventually they got it, and with some fiddling and a swear or two, the binder lay limp in Sherlock’s hand, John’s torso now bare as he slipped his bad arm into his hoodie, before pulling it over his shoulders. Sherlock set the binder on John’s dresser.

“Thank you.” He muttered softly as Sherlock walked to his side of the bed. The shorter man got into bed, his back facing Sherlock, as the taller man finished undressing. John was comfortable with Sherlock sleeping naked, and aside from the hoodie, he stopped wearing anything else himself.

But he hadn’t today, his boxers still clung to his hips. Sherlock took that as a note that he should do the same.

Sliding into bed beside him, Sherlock placed a gentle hand on John’s good arm. “Do you mind contact?” He asked.

There had been days where John would flinch like he’d been burned if Sherlock touched him, days where he hated his own skin to the point he would curl into the covers. Sherlock knew just to leave him, save to bring him a cup of tea or something to eat so he wasn’t damaging himself.

Other days John wouldn’t want nothing but his attention, taking his hand every chance he got, any form of contact he could get.

So, he needed to know, not wanting to worsen the situation for John.

“Hold me?”

“Of course, darling.” Sherlock pressed a kiss to the nape of John’s neck, as the doctor leant back into him. His body was shaking slightly, he was crying, and Sherlock let him. One arm was around his waist, the palm of his hand under the hoodie, against the flat of John’s stomach, pressing warmth into it. His other hand was in John’s hair, drawing patterns into his scalp gently with his fingertips.

Not a word was spoken. Sherlock silently comforting him. No questions asked.

The bed was empty when John woke.

That wasn’t an unusual occurrence for the detective.

John could still feel his hand on his stomach, grounding him.

He through his legs over the bed, and stared at the stupid fabric sling. God it was the cane all over again.

His hands rested between his legs as he stared at the wall, willing himself to get up and do something, but he couldn’t make himself.

The door opened behind him, he didn’t even look.

Sherlock set a mug of tea on John’s bedside table. “Green one today, you’ll be wearing your dark jacket for most of the day anyway.”

“What?” John asked, looking up at the taller man, his expression softening as he clicked back into reality.

“Your binder. You’ll be wearing the green one, the black one is dry for tomorrow, and I’ll wash the white one for you today.” Sherlock replied, taking a seat on the side of the bed, beside him, watching fondly as he took the mug of tea in a shaky hand.

“You don’t have to-“

“Unless you’d like Mrs Hudson to.”

“Right.” He rubbed his eyes, restraining a groan as he realised he couldn’t put it on one handed either. Before he could open his mouth to speak Sherlock knew what he was going to ask.

“Yes, I’ll help you.”

“You could be a certified mind reader, and nobody would know the difference.”

“You would.”

“That’s because I know you.”

“And others don’t?”

“Not _all_ of you. I get the pleasure of the hissy fits.” He laughed when Sherlock scowled, nudging him in annoyance. “Well I mean if Lestrade knew the aspect of you that cuddles, I’d be concerned and hurt.”

“Trust me he doesn’t.” Sherlock replied. “Speaking of Lestrade, he needs us in to account for that man we chased, Wade Johnstone.”

Sighing, John stood up, noting that Sherlock had handed him the green binder.

He turned his back, pulling the hoodie over his head, it came gently due to how big it was on him. He slipped his bad arm into the binder, using the leverage of his other arm going in to pull it down over his head, but anything further than that was futile.

Sherlock didn’t need to be told.

He hooked his fingers underneath the hem of the binder, tugging it further down John’s back, before moving his hands to John’s front, he heard John’s breath hitch.

“Tell me to stop if you need. I won’t take it to heart.”

“Left, then right.” John replied, his eyes shut, willing it to be over.

Sherlock knew exactly what to do, but John didn’t know that, so he nodded simply. “Got it.”

He curved his fingers under the tougher fabric at the front, the fabric that didn’t stretch. With efficiency and as little contact as he could manage, he got it over John’s chest, and John visibly relaxed. He was slightly unsure if it would be too far but considering John couldn’t do it to its full extent, he completed John’s flattening ritual.

“That’s… That’s how I always do it.”

“I told you I knew.” Sherlock replied, pressing a kiss to John’s temple, grabbing one of his coats from the back of his door. “I have to give Mrs Hudson the rent, meet you downstairs.”

And he left. As if it were completely normal.

That’s the way it continued until John’s arm was healed fully. Sherlock would pull it off, and pull it on, his eyes focused to the floor or the ceiling as John stood there and let it happen. The more it happened the less awkward it became.

When John’s arm was healed, Sherlock didn’t help him take it off anymore, going back to watching from the other side of the bed, as he got himself undressed.

However, and John didn’t quite understand why, Sherlock continued to help him put it on.

He didn’t question it the first time. He figured it would take a minute to settle in that John no longer needed him to help.

He didn’t say anything the second time. He supposed Sherlock had filtered this into the routine.

Three times makes a habit. John didn’t acknowledge that he _let_ it become a habit.

And so, for the next six months that was how it was. They maintained a fairly regular sleep pattern, aside from late night cases and the rare unresolved arguments. When John turned his back to Sherlock, removing his hoodie, Sherlock knew that John wanted it on.

It came to the point where John had begun to refrain from putting it on himself If Sherlock woke before him, almost waiting for Sherlock to come in and do it.

Then came John’s birthday. Sherlock had been acting strangely the entire day, and John had forgotten what day it was completely.

“What’s wrong, love?” John asked finally, putting the paper down as he looked across at Sherlock who was tapping his foot furiously against the carpet, twisting his phone about in his hands as he stared at John.

“I know you’ve forgotten, and I know you aren’t expecting anything but I did get you something for your birthday. If you want it that is. I know due to your financial circumstances left to you by your parentage it was never an option but… You have looked into, uh.” Sherlock faltered. “Top surgery, haven’t you?.” He spoke, his words were slow and carefully chosen.

John seemed to flick through a series of emotions all at once, going from surprised, to shocked, before concerned and then almost… Sad. “We still don’t have the money, Sherlock.” He replied, and Sherlock could hear the disappointment in his voice.

“I quit smoking, our last case payed considerably well, and Mrs Hudson, Molly, Lestrade and Mycroft were unsure of what to get you for your birthday. I however knew very well.” Sherlock’s pale eyes pierced Johns own. “That now begs the question of whether I was right.”

“When I was a teenager, life was hell. I hated it the moment it happened. I _begged_ Harry to get me that binder. You know more than anyone, hell, Sherlock, I’ve let you fuck me, but I never… _Never_ , not my chest. A-And you never asked. Why haven’t you asked?”

“The cliché answer is because I love you. Whilst that’s true, that isn’t the full extent of the answer.” John looked at him intently, and he took it as a sign to continue. “When the issue first arose, I didn’t understand. I viewed it as a waiting game: _When will he show me_? _When will he trust me enough_? Then I figured it out. It wasn’t any of that. You could very easily have shown me. It wasn’t that you couldn’t, or that you didn’t trust me. It was that you didn’t want to, and after I reached that conclusion, I realised I didn’t even care.” Sherlock laughed, shaking his head at his own stupidity.

“You helped me with my binder. Even though I don’t even need it now you still do. Why’s that?”

Sherlock ran his hand over his face, he’d expected the question to arise at some point. “I don’t do a lot for you John Watson. There’s a lot of things you do for me that I don’t need. A lot of things that I trust you to do, despite my uncertainty as to why you do them in the first place.” He sighed, unsure how to phrase it, but John was patient. His feelings were difficult to word, and as much as he’d prefer to avoid the question, he couldn’t leave John unanswered. “I'm not sure why I do it, it just makes me feel… Well I don’t know exactly- but the fact that you let me do it brings some new sort of happiness I didn’t have before. If that makes sense.”

There was a moment of silence. That moment felt like years to Sherlock, who was left feeling very vulnerable.

“You know if I get the surgery you won’t be able to do it anymore.” John replied, setting the paper down and standing up.

Sherlock followed suit, his hands trailing John’s waist as the shorter man stood on his toes to press a gentle kiss to his lips. John’s hand found Sherlock’s curls as he kissed him harder, Sherlock could only smile into it, knowing what it meant.

“That’s a small price to pay for you to love yourself as much as I do.”


End file.
